Closing Doors and Climbing through Windows
by gwmclintock9
Summary: A collection of one-shots (or more) set within an expanded Castle universe. They may be interconnected, they may not. This is just the house under which I tell these stories. Next: Fortress of Solitude. A follow-up to the Limey, focusing on Castle's introspection and identity.
1. Purple Velvet and Red Tape

**A/N:** I'm a huge fan of Castle, and love it when TV shows make references to other shows or movies. It expands the boundaries of the story and makes the universe the story is set in grander. Hence I've decided to start this collection of plot bunnies and stories based within Castle. Most of them will not be connected, but at times they will be and I'll make note of that at the beginning.

For now, I own nothing except debt and maybe a 3ds.

Without giving too much away, this story is one set in a universe I may return to or not. It depends. I've up

**Purple Velvet and Red Tape**

"No."

The answer was simple, but the situation unfortunately did not match.

This had started several weeks prior, when he received a typewriter left to him by his mentor, poker buddy, and friend, Stephen Cannell. The typewriter was supposedly a copy of the one that Stephen used while filming the endings for his production company.

The typewriter was black against black, with worn lettering but new tape. He had stared at it for nearly an hour once he received it. The awe and wonder at the machine had not passed, and if anything, the typewriter seemed to be even more inspiring. The second hour he spent playing with it, tossing papers over his shoulder as he typed nonsense on the page. He only stopped when his daughter stepped in and told him that needed to get back to work (figuratively and literally, since Beckett expected her daily contribution to the coffee gods).

Then a string of unfortunate but certainly not deadly events occurred throughout the week. There had been a minor explosion near the crime scene on Tuesday (no one had been hurt thankfully), then Ryan found a note left that led them on a wild goose chase over the next few days which including busting a underground kiddy porn ring and more minor explosions (a couple cars, a trash can, even a hot dog cart). The chase ultimately ended in one of the wildest (yet harmless) shootouts he had been on. Again, no one was hurt, but to him, it seemed way too much of a coincident since he played the scenes out on Cannell's typewriter.

"What do you mean 'no'?" The two people standing in front of him looked at each other in awe. The woman seemed to take charge, but definitely wasn't in charge. Their dynamic seemed similar to his and Beckett's, though if anything they seemed lost somewhere between sibling love and the kind of love written in stories. Definitely not his stories, since they would have likely been in bed together at least once by the end of the first book. Still, they were interesting, and may be something to work on with the next Nikki Heat book. That was how this started, or at least, they believed that was what was happening, and simply did not have all of the pages to the story, like he did.

He wondered what Beckett would think if she saw them, but the two agents had showed up at his home, at the oddest hour (another scene he had written for the hell of it), and demanded that he hand over the typewriter. Not they named it that, or even lead the conversation with that statement. Rather, the two agents took the time ask him a series of questions (why the hell would it matter if he smelt fudge?) and then when they learned about the gifted typewriter they were all over him.

"I mean, that your explanation is insufficient as well as you lack any government order for me to hand over something has been gifted to me." He had a hunch as to true nature of the typewriter, but would not speak the truth.

To speak it, would name the truth; it was similar to naming what had occurred between him and Beckett, especially given that there was the possibility that she heard him.

"We don't have time for this." The woman, Agent Berring stepped forward with an odd looking gun in her hand. "Sir, you need to hand it over right now."

"I don't need to do anything." He looked between her and the other agent, Latimer. Surprisingly, his calm remained, as if being threatened by government agents was an everyday occurrence. It certainly wasn't the first time that the government had threatened, or someone had waved some strange device in his face, demanding something from him (which sometimes turned out in his favor but this didn't seem like one of those times).

"We could just shoot him Myks." Latimer received a powerful glare for that statement, but he tried to keep his face still. "Just a suggestion."

'Look, I'm still unsure of what is going on here, so if you'd explain it calmly, maybe I could help."

"Not going to happen Mr. Castle, we're are just going to be taking it and then walking out of here. No one gets hurt, and everybody is happy." Agent Berring just stared at him down, and he finally felt the sweat slide down his back. The fear began to outweigh the courage (and stubbornness), leading him to consider the statement. He didn't have to consider it long, but he still considered it.

"I think you're mistaken." All eyes moved toward the source of the angelic voice (because really, she had to have been an angel with that timing and those looks). "Castle, you okay?"

"Just fine Kate." He gave her a small smile, encouraging her even as she now faced the barrel of two guns. Berring's gun flickered between him and her, the tension holding her motions rigid. "These agents were just explaining what they wanted." He stared at them for a moment before looking back at Kate. If she had returned, that meant...

"Dad...?" His daughter walked in, spooking the two agents. Both guns were trained on her now, giving him the chance to do something stupid (and heroic, but that was par for the course).

He dove at Berring, catching the woman off guard as she slammed into the couch behind her. Her body crumpled backward as the momentum carried them over the couch and onto the floor. The odd looking gun flew from her hands, spinning wildly in the air before landing near the windows. Beckett took advantage of the moment to disarm and attempt to control Latimer. The former situation was a rousing success, but the latter proved more difficult than she likely would want to admit.

Latimer blocked Beckett's first punch with ease, and followed it up with one of his own. The two fought for a few moments before Beckett struck at him just right to send him sailing head over ass, and over the couch. Castle had managed to holding down Berring long enough for Beckett to hand him a set of cuffs (where she had them, he did not know, but was dying to ask).

"Good work Castle," Beckett spoke airily; her chest heaved with each breath as she recovered from the exertion. "Seems you've been paying attention."

Castle just nodded before getting up and walking to his obviously shaken daughter. Alexis stood rooted to the floor, staring at the now prone figures of two agents.

"Dad, what happened?"

"Still trying to figure that out sweetie." Castle walked over to Beckett, taking the strange gun into his hands. "How about you head up to your room and we'll talk later?" Alexis stared at Beckett, who nodded, seeming to support her. The young girl glanced cautiously over her shoulder before heading to her room. He wondered if she would stand on her banister and listen in like she did when she was younger. Hopefully this wouldn't end in tears for anyone.

Castle turned his attention back to the gun and played with it, turning it over and trying to reconcile the strange design with what likely was holding a deadly force. The gun vibrated in his palm, as if the energy was daring to escape. The design reminisced of the steampunk case, though a hundredfold more technical and savvy. Part of his wanted to play with it, much like he had with some of the other objects from that case. But seeing Berring wave the gun at him was enough to strike a little caution into him. That and watching the agents' eyes follow his hands as he turned the gun over in it.

"I can't believe we got taken down." Latimer lamented. "Spooked by a teenager."

"So you going to explain to me what you are doing in his apartment?" Beckett asked as she stood up.

"I mean, if it was the artifact, sure I could understand, but a teenager? Unarmed?" The man ignored them in favor of complaining about the situation.

"Shut up Pete," growled Berring. She struggled against the cuffs for a moment before settling down. "Look, we didn't mean to startle you, but we need that typewriter."

"I get that," Castle said, kneeling in front of them. Beckett seemed content to let him take the lead, and for once he seemed to surprise her with the seriousness and calm in his voice. "That's the only thing that makes sense right now is that you want the typewriter and that I won't give it to you."

"Its dangerous." Berring tried to reason.

"So far, the only dangerous thing in my apartment is you two. You come into my home unannounced, demanding things from me, pointing strange weapons at my daughter." His voice nearly growled as he stared down at them. There were few things he didn't tolerated, and attacks against Alexis (and Kate) ranked high on the list. "I don't care if you are government agents or you are _the_ government, but that is not something that is kosher."

"Look, just let us apologize and explain." Latimer asked, stopping Berring from going off again. Castle nodded, taking a seat on the couch. Becket sat on the arm next to them, glaring at the agents. "Think we can be uncuffed?" He tried to show the cuffs behind his back, awkwardly twisting and ultimately failing to do so.

"They stay for the time being." Beckett was not in the mood for any games it seemed.

"Fine, that typewriter, your typewriter, used to belong to Stephen Cannell, correct?" Latimer explained. Castle nodded, trying to hide the surprise on his face. The only people that knew Cannell gave it to him were the man's lawyer, Alexis, and Kate. The gift had arrived only last week, and he hadn't even touched it until a few days ago.

"And?" Beckett's impatience shone through her tone.

"The typewriter may be the cause of the explosions, and some other events over the past week."

"And?" Castle had already figure that out, or at least made the possibility that the connection between the events and the typewriter existed. These agents seemed to place the events as more than a possibility on the connection.

"And we need to take it, for safety reasons." Latimer glanced at Berring who nodded in agreement, despite still looking perturbed.

"But no one got hurt, and if it does what you think it does, then all it takes is for me not to use it again, correct?" Castle watched their expressions as they attempted to have a private conversation in glances. Latimer appeared torn between the truth and loyalty, whereas Berring looked worn but cautious at the comment.

"What are your jobs with the Secret Service?" Beckett hopped in before they had a chance to respond. He had seen her do it before, getting people to start thinking about odds and ends before tripping them up.

"Well, its complicated, and we're really not supposed to tell you anything." Latimer spoke first, edging toward giving in to them.

"Probably something to do with gathering famous items and securing them in some warehouse in the middle of nowhere." Castle offered in jest. Both agents' eyes grew wide, and he could not help but smirk. "Law of averages! Ha, I'm right aren't I?" The agents shared another look before Berring nodded. "So there really is some place in the middle of nowhere?"

"Had to be right at least once in your life." Beckett drawled. "Now, what's so special about the typewriter that you think its okay to attempt steal it."

"The typewriter takes the words written and turns them into some form of reality." Latimer said. "So we need to take it so something bad doesn't happen."

"What bad things have happened? If someone does what?" Castle sat down, trying to have a conversation with the two restrained agents. "Use it?"

"That's the way these usually work." Latimer shrugged his shoulders. "And the bad things have only started. The explosions, the bust, even the shootout. Who knows what else is going to come of it."

"Which is why we need to take it with us." Berring said.

"No." Castle leaned back in the seat, watching the shock and now anger grow on their faces. Even Beckett was starting to look a little annoyed; he could not tell if it was with him or the agents.

"Look it may not even be an artifact," Latimer tried to reason. "How about we just test it to see if it does spark." Castle stared at him for a moment, trying to weigh the odds. He did not want to give up the typewriter, and frankly did not believe he needed to. It wasn't some sense of ego, but the sense of something greater. The secrets he kept could fill a book, not that any of them, including Beckett needed to know.

Beckett released them as Castle went to his office. He removed the typewriter, feeling no malevolence or anger from it. None of the emotions that these agents suspected it induced, or could induce. There was no draw to use it, only his own wild and crazy imagination running through his head. He knew when he was under the influence of something else, when something drew him away from the worlds pocketing his psyche. The typewriter gave none of those vibes off, yet the evidence was stacked against it. No, not evidence, conjecture. That was all it was. Could the typewriter be an artifact? Possibly, but not malevolent and far from dangerous.

Carrying it back in, he stared at the container that Latimer had set on one of his coffee tables. The metal cylinder looked large enough to hold the typewriter, if he twisted it a bit, but it didn't look too inviting. Maybe that was the point.

"So we just drop it into the goo?" Castle held it away from the vat of purple. "That's not going to interfere with it working, will it?"

"No, it shouldn't." Berring spoke slowly, as if confused by the question. Castle looked at Beckett, trying to gauge her response and ask for advice. She shrugged her shoulders, casually holding the guns in her hands. It was his decision it seemed.

"Okay, but if it is what you say it is, you're still not getting it." Castle said, placing the typewriter as gently as he could into the vat. It sparked for a moment, nearly causing him to jump back.

"Guess that's it." Latimer moved to place the lid on, but Castle stuck his hand in there, grabbing onto the typewriter. "Hey!"

"I thought I explained that you weren't getting it." Castle pulled it out of the goo, doing his best to let it drip on the carpet. He wasn't sure what it would do the hardwood, and figured he could replace the carpet easier than the wood.

"Mr. Castle, it's an artifact, and therefore our responsibility," Bering tried to explain. "We need to take it so no one gets hurt."

"Has anyone been hurt yet?" Castle countered. They both paused at the question, giving him enough time to step away and move toward his office. "If you can prove to me that it hurts people, I will let you have it." Beckett followed him into his office, watching him as he quickly gathered up several sheets of paper on his floor. He held the typewriter tight against his side, slightly worried that the two agents would try for it again.

"Playing around when you're supposed to be working?" Her eyebrow arched as he handed her the papers. Her eyes immediately began to read them, like the fan she never admitted she was. "This..."

"Tuesday." Castle finished, smiling as she flipped to through the next few pages. They were different scenes, but similar to the events they had been in together throughout the week. "And then right now." He pulled out another page, watching her eyes scanning the paper quickly.

"You typed these?" The fan girl in her sparkled in her eyes as Castle nodded.

"Let me see." Beckett handed the pages to Berring, letting her review them at her own pace. While they were distracted, Castle grabbed a towel left over from a mess he made with a bottle of water, cleaning off the goo as best as he could. It wasn't much, and the goo slid off the typewriter easily enough, but still the gift was important to him. Stephen helped him nurture a gift for writing into a best-selling business. It had been a long time since he wrote for fun, and it wasn't until Nikki Heat that he felt a character was alive again.

But if Nikki felt alive to him, it was because of Kate.

Now, the typewriter was just a reminder of an old friend and a cherished job they both had. He planned to lock it in his show cabinet after this, and given that the cabinet had both a deadbolt and numeric-based key coding system, he figured it was safe enough there. Plus, no one else had been drawn to it.

"So, as you can see, no one got hurt." Castle placed the typewriter back into the case, letting it rest upon the purple velvet, before locking it up quickly. "And those scenes are incomplete anyway. I'm usually a little more violent in my writing."

"I know." Beckett, and to his surprise, Berring both muttered. Berring began to blush under Latimer's gaze. Castle chuckled as he walked around his desk. He had kept several copies of the newest Nikki Heat, Heat Rises, in case he needed to send one out to a fan or he thought someone may like a copy. He did that randomly sometimes, and figured this was as good as any. Grabbing a marker out of the cup, he flipped the cover.

"What's your first name?" Berring looked shocked at the question. "You're a fan right?"

"You can't bribe me." She glared at him, only to stop at Beckett's chuckle.

"Trust me, that's not a bribe from him." Becket said, walking over to look at the typewriter in its case. "And bribes aren't his style. Blackmail and subterfuge..." she let her voice trail off as she turned her back to them. Despite the casual movement, her body stood with a tension ready to be released if the two agents made the wrong move.

"Myka, just -"

"Pete!" She growled at the use of the her first name. Castle smirked, quickly writing down a comment before signing it with a flourish.

"Here," he held it out, and nearly smiled as _Myka_ handled it more tentatively, almost more reverently than she did the strange gun or that vat of purple goo. "Now, if I agree to keep it in the case, we're not going to have any problems?"

"What...what if someone else is drawn to it?" Myka stuttered out, clutching the book to her chest with one hand.

"Kate, you feel anything?"

"Annoyance." She tossed back, smirking over her shoulder before moving to sit at his desk. Castle hide a smirk, knowing the inner fan girl was squealing inside of her. "But no, nothing." She spun in the chair once, before settling down and look at the two agents.

"And since I'm the only one with a key to that display case, we don't have anything to worry about." He spoke in his dad tone and stared the two of them down, nearly glaring at them. Latimer looked away first, rubbing the back of his neck chagrined. Berring followed after a minute or so, nodding in agreement. "It is not dangerous, and obviously, if it is not used or in a position to be used, then it will be safe. No one else knows I have it beside you three, and my daughter of course." He tacked the last sentence on easily, his quick grin snapping Beckett out of her visual examination of him. Probably trying to figure how he managed to get them to acquiesce, given that she never seems to manage that feat.

"So you want us to leave it here with you?" Berring said, making eye contact again.

"That was what I said right?" Castle looks over his shoulder at Beckett, catching her smirk.

"Now you know how I feel." Beckett rolled her eyes before directing her attention to the agents.

"I'm not sure if Artie is going to like this," muttered Berring as Latimer shrugged his shoulders.

"Hey, let him come out here and argue from a guy who knows the NYPD," Latimer offered.

"And the Mayor, and the FBI, CIA," Castle added before smiling widely, "and now the Secret Service." His mind began to spin at the thought of adding something like the two of them to the next Nikki Heat. The dynamic of a partnership heightened the suspense and thrills of a story. Derrick Storm may have had Sofia for a few of the series, but Castle always paired Storm with someone. Nikki had Jameson, so building off of the partnership before him would be easy. Especially since he had tripped the cameras to start recording since the two of them entered.

"More research?" Beckett asked. Castle glanced at her, catching the hint of worry in her eyes that disappeared behind her wall.

"Can't get rid of me that easily." She smiled at him before coming around the desk to stand next to him. "So, how about dinner?"

"We just tried to steal from you, and you're offering dinner?" Berring asked, her eyes wide with skepticism.

"Hey, hey, lets not be too hasty here." Latimer turned toward him, as if finally taking the events seriously. "What kind of food we talking about here?"

"Not Nigerian," Beckett said, willing to let this go. She stilled seemed to be on guard, but followed his lead for once.

"Hey, you liked the beef stew." Castle said, motioning them all out of his office.

"It was cow's feet."

"No." Berring immediately had turned to Latimer, who was frozen with his mouth open. "We are not having Nigerian cow's feet stew." Castle smiled, glad to see that the bickering was something that they shared. "Chinese? We can't get anything good out in the middle of nowhere."

"Sure, Beckett, you mind showing them the menu? We can compare horror stories over dinner."

"What are you going to do?" She glared at him, gently teasing him.

"Clean this up," he shooed her toward the kitchen, motioning Myka and Pete to follow. Beckett left without a look back with Myka close behind her, quietly asking about how she dealt with a crazy partner. Pete stared at him for a moment, as if sizing him up or something. Castle just grinned and set about to his task.

He folded the now purple towel into itself, trying to catch as much of the goop as possible. It gave his hands something to do while he waited for them to leave his office or at least get far enough away to set the security. Tossing the towel into his tub, he planned on washing it separately in hopes of cleaning it. If not, well, no sense in running other clothes. He turned back to find his office empty and moved toward a painting just to the side of his bedroom door.

He had not lied to them when he said there was a keypad and deadbolt; he may have left a few of his security measures vague in order to protect himself and his family. It came with the territory. A few quick buttons, a series of passwords derived from words associated with Beckett and Alexis (nothing remoting related to Nikki Heat, that was too easy), and the window slid down.

Focusing on the typewriter resting on a bed of purple velvet, he smiled for a moment, happiness flowing out of him like the ideas he had.

"You coming Rick?" Beckett stuck her head through the doorway. He looked over his shoulder as activated the safety measures again. As much as the stories made him smile, hearing her say his name, his first name seemed all the more satisfying.

"Right behind you." He headed out the office door, turning off the light before following her. No more tales for now at least.

**I0I**

Dinner had been an entertaining affair, especially since he persuaded Alexis to come down from her room. Myka and Pete both apologized, and then began to tell stories from their time with the Secret Service (their current work being classified for some reason), which certainly entertained her. Kate offered up her own stories, and he did his best to embellish whenever it was about his time with her.

When the agents had finally left, Kate stuck around a little while longer, talking about the night with him and Alexis. If he was honest with himself, he thought that this was how it could always be: her sitting up late, enjoying a glass of wine, and just being, with them. Because it was a 'them.' Alexis was a part of the deal and to see Kate not only get along with her but the two enjoy the others company (especially after all the shit that he and Kate seemed to put each other through) was amazing.

Now, sitting at his desk, he stared at the epicenter of amusement for the evening. The typewriter remained behind the glass pane, but his fingers did not itch to type because of it. Seeing Kate outside of work, with his daughter brought so many stories, so many quips and twists to his head that he had to get them down somehow. If anyone could take the energy emitting from the typewriter and turn it into something positive, it was him.

"You talked them out of it." It wasn't a question, and he was certianly not surprised to her Mrs. Fredrick ask it. He turned his gaze from the typewriter to the woman who suddenly appeared in his office. Since he had seen the agents off, and said goodbye to Kate, he had expecting the older woman's arrival.

"It's a gift," he shrugged his shoulders. Mrs. Fredrick glared him, and he simply smiled. He knew his silvertongue got him out of trouble more often than not, and it had been one of the reasons the Regents recruited him just before he published his first novel (though it rarely worked on Kate to his chagrin). His role was the same as any other regent: keep the safety and the secrecy of the Warehouse from the public. He was even there in the cafe when the other regents were determining Artie's fitness. Of course, if he read the weekly reports, he would have realized that Myka and Pete were the two newest agents.

"You know it belongs in the Warehouse," she said, taking a step forward.

"Of course, and it will go to the Warehouse after I die." It was always his intention to send it to there, but for now, he desired to keep it. Not to use it, which seemed to be everyone's worry.

"Whenever that may be," Mrs. Fredrick glowered at him. He just smirked, knowing there was not much she could do about it. The item was not dangerous, and did not prove drawn to others to use. Besides, people rarely actually died in Stephen's shows, at least, on screen. So the typewriter could hardly be used for anything bad, and almost all of his shows ended happily ever after, unless it was a multi-parter.

"Does Artie realize that I am a regent?" Castle asked. He knew that he didn't take his responsibilities as seriously as others, but his role wasn't as vital as some of the other Regents.

"I'm sure he is aware that Richard Rodgers is one, but I doubt he reads enough to make the connection." He didn't care one way or another, but it was some of his money that helped to fund the Warehouse. "Nor are Agents Bering and Latimer aware of your connection." He nodded, expecting that much from them, as he had convinced them simply by locking it up.

"Did Myka suspect anything?"

"No, but I believe Latimer did." It slightly surprised him, but maybe Bering had been star struck after he managed to get them to agree to let him keep the typewriter.

"Any other updates that warranted a visit? I mean, I wouldn't have been the first Regent to want to keep an artifact." He asked, in an attempt to determine her reasons for being here were. As far as he was aware of, sometimes hiding things in plain sight only helped. In fact, this was the first artifact he had kept, though he held onto one for about a week as they prepared a containment cell for it. Now that he thought about it...

"It's me, isn't it," Castle said, turning to face the typewriter. "Something about my brainwaves or how energy affects me, or something, but I'm not affected by any of them, am I?"

"No, nothing like that I'm afraid. You simply have too strong of a will to let something else take control over you." He laughed at the thought. His lack of self-control was legendary at the 12th, but then again, he never did anything he did not set his mind to do, well, anything not involving Kate.

"Okay, that makes sense. But why are you here?" Castle turned back to her, glaring now. It was late, and although unlikely, his daughter could walk in. "Do I owe dues?" He jested, knowing full well where part of the money he made each week went.

"The case you are working on," there was only one case that she could mean, one case that permuted across everything else he did. "Do you require assistance?"

"You want to help me?" he sputtered. It wasn't something he expected, the offer for aid. "Why? What do you gain out of it?" Immediately, he was suspicious. They had never offered assistance to him before, only asking for his input and imagination with regards to the Warehouse. Offering help for something as 'benign' as a conspiracy about a murder was way too far under their radar.

"Nothing, but a problem for one of our Regents is a problem for the rest of us," Mrs. Fredrick motioned toward his LCD screen. The outline of the case appeared, with Beckett's picture appearing in the middle. "It shouldn't be too hard to figure it out." He should be worried that she could turn on the computer and access a secure file without even touching the remote or keyboard, but there were more pressing concerns and Mrs. Fredrick always seemed to do as she pleased.

"No, for you, it shouldn't," Castle said. He stared at the screen for a moment, silently apologizing to Beckett before grabbing the remote. "But then it wouldn't mean anything to me if you did."

"Don't be naive, you'll never figure it out without any help," she shot back. He stared at the board, and realized she was right. He never could figure this out alone, he needed help. someone else who could look over the data, he needed -

His mind stopped as he stared at Kate's image upon the board. He needed her in his life. she was more important than anything else, anything he did or was involved in. The only exception to this was Alexis, but he had never thought about telling her of his role in the Warehouse. It was only by happenstance that she was here today, but she would never guess her old man worked with them.

"I'm going to have to ask you to leave, Mrs. Fredrick," Castle stood, moving to block the screen from view.

"Really, Mr. Castle." It was not a question and the condescension oozed from her very being. He stared back, as best as he could.

Despite being a Regent, he did not know everything about the Warehouse, which was likely a similar facet that all Regents faced. But they shared one common piece of knowledge: Mrs. Fredrick's role spanned beyond any of their own, and created a much more gravitas about her that frightened lesser people. Glaring down at her as she stood there, her knowing smirk painted on her lips, he felt anger for the first time since taking the position.

"You approached me, and asked me to take part in something that writers dream of, where the stories we tell could come to life," Castle waved his hand angrily about, "and tell me that I can't tell anyone but one soul. A soul I trust completely and implicitly. I can't tell my mother or my daughter, who is the very center of my universe, because this secret, this curse is so large and so powerful, that it could tear us apart. So I kept my silence, and did my part.

"I provided advice and assistance as needed, hell, I even fund your asses." It was a substantial bit of his money that flowed into the Warehouse each year. Not enough that it would be noticeable to anyone but his accountant, but he had explained it away as a way of giving back. "My money is what has helped keep you afloat these last few years. My money funds your agents, and keeps the artifacts safely encased in the Warehouse."

"Think of it as us giving back to you," Mrs. Fredrick interrupted. He shifted his gaze from the windows to her, his brow creasing with anger as he felt his face harden.

"Giving back would be providing people with some minute of respect when you speak to them or about them," he growled, "or maybe it would something as simple as saying 'thank you.' No, that is too much for you, you have to butt into the lives of people that have nothing to do with our business. Lives that I have worked hard to keep separate from that place." He held up his hand, warding off her interruption. "Yes, your agents came here, but they were doing their job. You on the other hand, never have the courtesy of using the front door or phoning ahead. Instead you play God from your perch, watching and judging the moments you deem fit to intervene. All in the name of protecting the Warehouse no doubt."

"Are you relinquishing your role as Regent, Mr. Rodgers?" The calm that she spoke should have frightened him, but he only felt his resolve hardening.

"No, if anything, I'm going to stick around to make sure that you stay the hell out of my business and anyone else's. Your role, your only role, is ensuring that the Warehouse is safe and the agents are working well together. So stay the hell out of my business and the other Regents'. If we wanted help, and that's a damn big 'if,' then we might asked for it, but for now, stay the hell out of my business, and the hell out of my house!" He did not realize his voice had risen, but Mrs Fredrick barely responded. She simply nodded, as if they had just finished a polite conversation over afternoon tea.

"Very well," she said, her eyes and body betraying nothing. Castle calmed himself as best as he could, though his heart was still racing and his fist clenched in anger. "Have a good evening Mr. Rodgers. We will let you know if we need anything else from you." She left without another word, always getting the final word. He doubted it was just him that she did it to, but it was likely a response to his outburst.

Castle turned to stare at the safe, sitting safely under a pale purple light. He never regretted being a part of the secret society that protected the world. He never regretted holding onto a secret so powerful it could change how the world saw itself.

His only regret, at this moment, was having enough faith in himself and Kate to do the right thing. At this moment, that right thing was playing it close to the vest. Above all else, keeping Kate safe was his most second important task, as Alexis would always be his world. Even if that meant not going into this deeper.

His phone rang loudly through the darkness, breaking through the stormy thoughts clouding him since Mrs. Fredrick had stopped by. Glancing at the image of Becket glaring at him on his phone, he smiled into his response. "Richard Castle, late-night masseuse and writer, how may I help you?"

"Castle," Becket's breath of exacerbation felt like it was touching his cheek. "Really?"

"Just trying to get you to smile," he offered honestly. "So, where and how long do I have?"

She rattled off the address, and he stood from his desk. First order of business, check on his daughter (not that she needed to know he still did that); second, make two cups of coffee.

**A/N:** Let me know what you think and if I should continue this story.

Good night and good luck.


	2. Fortress of Solitude

He closed his phone, watching her for a moment before finding the courage to move forward. Another lie for another lie. They had changed the dance steps sometime, or maybe, it finally made sense. Their dance was always off, whether he plodding along with the truth while she weaved through his steps with her lies. It had to be lies, because they wouldn't hurt as much if they weren't.

She asked him about the date, a date that took him more time to remember than he had to try and forget her. A date that really wasn't a date, but a series of lonely lunches and dinners where someone else happened to be there. Fun and uncomplicated were the words he told her, but they certainly weren't the words he would use to describe it. But then again, his mother wasn't the only actor in the family.

He had seen her talking to Scotland Yard, and saw the intrigue and desire written on the man's face. He avoided looking at Ka-Beckett all night, it was too hard too real. And was so sure of himself that she reflected that desire and intrigue, that she wanted to go out with the man as well.

"Yup," he nodded, agreeing with what Jocanda had said. He wasn't quite sure how he had got to the restaurant, or what they were eating. The only reason why he knew what he had given Esposito to have was because he had been there a million times before, and he could read their menu by route. Here, someplace she recommended, the food tasted like ash, but he played his part. They all had their parts to play.

For so long, he was playing the fool. But it was always because of a woman. Kyra, Meredith, Gina... Gina again. The same pattern. No, that was a lie, the last person he actually went out with, that he actually had sex with was Gina. And despite Jocanda's obvious ovations, he wasn't going to sleep with her. When he was younger, yeah, he probably could have quite easily, if just to forget the pain that seemed to surround him, and the simple inability for a woman to fall in love with him. He never was what they wanted, or even needed. And for a long time, sex was just his way to escape.

But the food tasted like ash and the wine like tar. His face stiffened as he held that devil-may-care smile in place, trying to bring that charm out of hiding. He wasn't used to trying, and it certainly wasn't like riding a bike; he felt lost and pained, and torn in all of the places that made this feel so wonderful before _her_. Before he started going to the 12th and working with Beckett.

He had started picking up comics again, on a whim in September, and the new Superman despite not being the classic and wonderful hero that he grew up with, still seemed to get it right. One persona for the world; for Superman it was the tights (the underwear outside of the suit so made it but this one looked cool too), for him, it was the suit, the playboy smile, the woman hanging off his arm. One persona for his friends; his Clark Kent was normally the role he played with Beckett. A nerdy, awkward guy, but he could live with that. And one for himself; sitting alone in his fortress of solitude, knowing that no one will understand because no one ever does.

And somehow, he was back at the loft. Alone. Flashes of a brief argument with Jocanda and he remembered to make a call down to security to watch his car for the next few days. She seemed way too angry with someone he didn't have sex with and never called again.

But here, in his fortress of solitude, with a glass of whiskey in one hand, he stared at his Kryptonite. And she stared back at him, daring him with those eyes that consumed his soul, his love. That took everything he had given her freely, and gave him nothing but lies back. Her words cut him deeper than he had thought, and maybe that was because he had let her through the layers, through his cape and tights, and all the things that made him. She wasn't the only one with a wall, but he never tried to hide behind his. And she seemed happy to just use him to get out from behind hers, long enough to start going out again with some...some...limey.

No, that wasn't fair. The guy was generally a good guy, or at least seemed so in the few moments that he managed to actually talk to him. Beckett had given into him it seemed right from the beginning, everyone had. Maybe it was the accent; if he could talk with a British one, people may fall for him, and stay that way...

And now the whiskey tasted like ash. He had given up trying to care for the night. He'd figure it out in the morning. Well, maybe, if he managed to sleep for a full night.

The trip to Vegas had been meant to tire him out. He wanted to get away from all the pain, just for a little bit. But that back fired. A call from Beckett once he is back on the ground, and an offhand suggestion to the flight attendant, and here he was, drinking another glass of ash just to try and get some sleep.

"Dad?" He instinctively tapped the remote, his murderboard going dark. He turned to look over at Alexis, one of two women who were always there for him.

"Hey pumpkin," he forced a smile out along with his hoarse whisper. He certainly didn't feel like smiling, but for Alexis, he always had one. She was his sun, the reason for getting up in the morning it seemed. His only reason anymore. "What are you doing up so late?"

"I...I wanted to make sure you're okay." She stepped into his office, hands playing with the hems of pajamas too long but too comfy to give up.

"Why wouldn't I be?" He put down the almost full glass, not surprised that he only taken a few sips. The urge to drink is gone, but the thirst remains. Maybe it wasn't the drink he wanted or the good foods.

"You've been quiet for a few day." She moved over to his desk, and just like did when she was younger, he pulled her into his arms.

"Just working on some things." She snuggled closer, letting out a yawn. She latched onto his arms, holding her close. He was brought back to when she was six years old, climbing into his bed because of the monster underneath her bed. She clung to him in fear, silently ask her daddy to make her feel safe. It made him feel almost like Superman again. "I'll be okay."

"Love you." She wouldn't be comfortable in that position for too long, and he knew that he wasn't young enough to not feel the pains and aches from sleeping in his chair again. But he didn't care. His sun was here, burning brightly in the darkness.

As much as it seemed to distress her, she was the reason he needed to keep going back, to keep helping the 12th. Without her, he would have no reason, and he would need a reason now as he approached the second half of his life.

Before the 12th, before _her_, before Nikki, life had been easy and he accepted that for what it was: his life. Now, with he found something that mattered, that made him feel like he was doing something good for the world and he played an important role. He planned on sticking around there as long as he could.

After all, if Superman could do fake a normal life, he certainly could as well.


End file.
